And if I spoke it for the first time instead of writing it——what did that prove, but that I was able to speak it, and that just it was so much less earnest and painfully felt? Why it was not a proposition even—. I said only ‘You had better give me up!’ It was only the reflection, in the still water, of what had been a proposition. ‘Better’ perhaps!—‘Better’ for you, that you should desire to give me up and do it—my ‘Idée fixe’ you know. But said with such different feelings from those which have again and again made the tears run down my cheeks while I wrote to you the vexatious letter ... that I smile at you seeing no difference. You, blind!—Which is wrong of me again. I will not smile for having vexed you ... teazed you. Which is wrong of you, though ... the being vexed for so little! because ‘you ought to know by this time’ ... (now I will use your reproachful words)—you ought certainly to know that I am your own, and ready to go through with the matter we are upon, and willing to leave the times and the seasons in your hand! Four months! meant nothing at all. Take September, if you please. All I thought of answering to you, was, that there was no need yet of specifying the exact time. And yet—

Ah—yes!—I feel as you feel, the risks and the difficulties which close around us. And you feel that about Mr. Kenyon? Is it by an instinct that I tremble to think of him, more than to think of others? The hazel-rod turns round in my hand when I stand here. And as you show him speaking and reasoning ... his arm laid on your shoulder ... oh, what a vision, that is! before that, I cannot stand any longer!—it takes away my breath—the likelihood of it is so awful that it seems to promise to realise itself, one day!

But you promised. I have your solemn promise, Robert! If ever you should be moved by a single one of those vain reasons, it will be an unfaithful cruelty in you. You will have trusted another, against me. You would not do it, my beloved.

For I have none in the world who will hold me to make me live in it, except only you. I have come back for you alone ... at your voice and because you have use for me! I have come back to live a little for you—. I see you. My fault is ... not that I think too much of what people will say. I see you and hear you. ‘People’ did not make me live for them. I am not theirs, but yours. I deserve that you should believe in me, beloved, because my love for you is ‘Me.’

Now tell me again to ‘decide’—and I will tell you that the words are not ‘breath,’ nor the affection ‘a show.’ Dearest beyond words, did I deserve you telling me to ‘decide’?

Let it be September then, if you do not decide otherwise—I would not lean to dangerous delays which are unnecessary—I wish we were at Pisa, rather!

So try to find out if and how (certainly) we can get from Nevers to Châlons ... I could not to-day, with my French travelling-book, find a way, either by the chemin de fer or coche d’eau.—All the rest is easy and direct ... and very cheap. We must not hesitate between the French route and the sea voyage.

Now I will tell you your good story. You said that you had only heard six words from Mr. Reade—but that they were characteristic. Someone was talking before him and you of the illness of Anacreon Moore—‘He is very ill’ said the someone. ‘But he is no poet’ said Mr. Reade.

Isn’t it a good story? Mr. Kenyon called it ‘exquisite.’ It is what your man of science would have called ‘A beautiful specimen’—now isn’t it?